Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
Notes: Thank you for the feedback :) I think we're starting to wind down... but we'll see what happens. Happy Holidays to you, and a Happy New Year.
The numbers weren't welcome, but that didn't stop the relentless onslaught. I clutched my head, ducking between my knees as I huddled against the kitchen cabinets. Don had fallen asleep somewhere in the living room. Without his constantly hovering presence, the house felt empty and lonesome, cold, dark, and silent. It felt like despair. My hands shook against my ears, against my damp hair, but I refused to look away from the blurring linoleum – the patterns were everywhere.
Everywhere.
The microwave flashed numbers, the oven had numbers, the floor had parallel and perpendicular lines, the empty glasses on the counter refracted the faint light. Somewhere, I could hear a clock chiming more numbers, filling the yawning cavern the house had become. A car rumbled by and without thinking I calculated its speed.
Numbers.
Numbers.
Numbers.
God. Damn. Numbers.
A strangled moan escaped dry lips; I licked them, but the sick feeling refused to abate, instead accentuated by the slimy feeling of excess moisture. I swiped a sleeve across my mouth and finally raised my head to lean back against one of the cutlery drawers, eyes still closed. This wasn't working. Knowing I needed a release and acting on that knowledge were two different things with two different levels of difficulty. The chalk in my pocket had been burning a hole there since early this morning, when Don unceremoniously stuffed handfuls into my shirt pocket. I could feel it now, against my heart; I could move to a blackboard, and scrawl something, anything, to get the numbers out….
Except, numbers were juxtaposed with terrible memories of guilt and grief. I'd returned the wrong numbers in the last three – probably four, now – cases Don had brought home, and Dad… I knocked my head backwards against the drawer with a muffled bang, accidentally catching my temple on the sharp knob and garnering a small scratch. It stung lightly. I dragged my nails across the back of my hand mindlessly. That stung, too. The numbers had stopped, and I wasn't about to let them start again.
-
I woke slowly, not quite sure why – until I heard the muted sniffling, the whispers, and the occasional gasps. "Oh hell, Charlie," I muttered, terrified. Several times before the attempt I'd discovered sharp pieces of plastic, or the sharpened ends of nail files, curiously strewn about the house. I had been negligent of his emotional turmoil then, but having found him laden with deep red welts and a few bloody grazes, and recognized them – and his tools – for what they were, I surrendered to the helpless guilt. Now, following the incident, I was appalled by the idea of interrupting another attempt.
Stumbling out of the chair and accidentally ramming my knees into the coffee table, I set off for the source of the noises with a pressing urgency. Please, Charlie. Please don't be… It took me several frightening seconds to orient myself, but I finally found him huddled in the kitchen, wide-eyed and thoroughly distressed, with a magnet pressed against his inner forearm. He'd actually managed to draw blood - long thin lines of it that dotted his skin in crooked lines. I snatched the piece away from him immediately, an action that he protested with startling desperation.
"NO!"
"Charlie! Charlie, stop it!"
"Give it back," he moaned instead. "Don, give it back-" I tossed it across the room, thinking that I'd solved the problem, but he flew into a violent fit by clawing at his face. "Give it back!"
"CHARLIE!" Grasping his wrists firmly, I pressed my face against his and took in exaggeratedly deep breaths. "Breathe with me, buddy. C'mon." He was still thrashing feebly, but within a few moments his opposition had subsided to weak shivering. I pulled a clean dishtowel out of the drawer above us, wet it in the sink, then knelt again to press it against his cuts. He hissed without remorse, still struggling with his shallow panting.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry; the numbers," he gasped brokenly. "I'm sorry."
I pulled him close, an arm tossed around his frail shoulders, and held him tight, my hands sweaty from the stress and fear. The last thing I could tell him was, It's okay, but I didn't know what else to say. My little brother was shaking on the floor after hurting himself with a goddamn magnet from some pizza joint. "Charlie… Charlie you gotta stop. What's wrong? …You-you can't do this to yourself- It scares the shit out of me, buddy."
Shaking his head. His hands were cold – not as cold as that night, but still lacking the life I wanted to restore so badly. He breathed in deeply, shuddered bodily, and tucked himself against my side for several long moments; he didn't move, but I could feel the gradual seeping of tears through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. Rocking him gently in the eerily-familiar twilight, I shushed him quietly. Talk to me, buddy. You just gotta talk to me. A sharp intake of breath.
"I-I need help, Don-" And it sounded as though he was on the verge of a breakdown, on the edge of some terrible abyss. "Donnie, I can't d-do this."
I started, "Charlie…" in an almost warning tone, but stopped when his eyes squeezed shut in sudden misery.
"Don." Shit, he really is on the edge. Don't do this to me, buddy… Don't do this to me- "I don't… I don't want to do this- anymore." He sounded so sad, so broken, so agonizingly hopeless that I hugged him tighter. I felt so helpless.
"You can't say that. Please. Please, Charlie," I murmured into his hair. "Please. Don't say that. I'll help you, I promise. We'll get through this; it will be okay again."
Shaking his head, violently. "It's not okay-" His voice sounded like paper tearing, rough and candid. "I… I can't do this anymore."
I grasped his shoulders firmly, his head still moving, and forced him in front of me. "Don't say that! Charlie, don't say that!"
"Why?"
"Be-because," I stuttered, "how could we solve those crimes-"
"My numbers were wrong! They were wrong! Numbers are wrong! I got people killed, again!" Wild, now. Eyes wide, with unabashed tears. "Dad died because of-of me-"
"He died of a heart attack, Charlie."
"Because I was in the garage and didn't call 9-1-1 in time."
Months ago, when I had received the call, I'd blamed him. If he'd just been more aware… had just come in for dinner like he should have…. I resisted shaking my head because I knew what he said was true, that he had died because medical attention hadn't arrived in time. But it was over. I couldn't bring Dad back. I couldn't bring Mom back. It was me and Charlie, and it was up to me to hold it all together – to make sure my little brother never lost that priceless hope. I wanted to hold him again, but he'd moved away, to slump bonelessly against the cabinets as if he'd sensed my reluctant acquiescence.
"Look, Charlie." He barely glanced at me but I knew he was listening reluctantly – maybe even automatically. "You need to move past this. Dad… he wouldn't want you to grieve like this."
Sigh. "I'm tired." It broke my heart that I interpreted multiple meanings.
"I can help you. I need you to talk to me. I'm here for you, buddy. I'm here. I need you."
He didn't reply verbally; after several tense seconds though, he suddenly caved and leaned over, allowing me to support his weight. When he sighed again, it felt like everything had left his body – like he'd erased himself. I wrapped my arms around him just to assure myself that he hadn't flitted away, felt the soft heat of his body against me, felt the penetrating melancholy that he radiated….
I didn't let go.